Bad Timing
by FraidyCat
Summary: You ain't seen whumpin', yet.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Bad Timing  
**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. They do occasionally visit from time to time.**

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Chapter 1

When the bomb went off, Don and Charlie were not even together.

Don was in the driver's seat of the SUV half a block away, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and he felt it before he heard it.

Both ears popped, and the SUV was picked up several feet off the ground, then dropped back on the pavement, as if some gigantic monster had considered playing with it, but changed his mind. The airbags had deployed, the one on the driver's side hitting Don so hard in the face he saw stars.

The passenger air bag hit nothing, because Charlie had been almost directly in front of the bank's glass exterior, squatting down on the sidewalk, tying his shoe. As he began to straighten, there was a deafening explosion, and he was catapulted backwards several feet, bouncing off other bodies and various debris. He was knocked unconscious while still rag dolling through the air, when he collided with someone else's head and pinballed the other direction, back toward the bank. Mercifully, when he finally settled back to earth, passing a jagged pane of glass on the way, he didn't even feel it. He landed almost softly, head cushioned on the overweight stomach of a woman who already lay there dead.

Back in the SUV, Don was beginning to hear the screams and distant sirens, and he was trapped in his seat by the air bag. Fighting a sense of panic, he pushed his right hand below it, until he could feel his leg. He worked his way up to the holster on his hip, and managed to grasp his gun. He was fighting to bring his arm back to the surface, so he could shoot the air out of this suffocating marshmallow, when something in his head asked why he didn't just try the door.

He plunged his other arm out of sight, felt around until he had a handle, and was stunned when the door actually opened. He leaned toward the street and fumbled with the seat belt, not ready when he hit the latch and he was released. He tumbled hard onto the pavement, bruising a knee, skinning an elbow and almost discharging the weapon he still clutched in his right hand.

He lay there stunned for a moment, the screaming louder now and accompanied by running feet. Shakily, he holstered his gun again and used the open door to pull himself up to stand in the street. He looked toward the bank, his view unencumbered now by the airbags, and he could see the devastation. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and knew that there must have been a bomb.

Then his heart actually thudded to his feet and threatened to leak out his toes. Charlie had made him pull over so he could run back to the ATM. Dear God. Charlie was somewhere in that.

Without making the decision to do it, Don was running toward the bank, pushing against the people running away from it. The closer he got, the more clearly he could see destruction, and scattered bodies. He was mumbling, "No, no, no, no, no", but he wasn't aware of it. He reached the impact zone and searched the ground, feeling as if he stood in war-torn Israel.

Ambulances and EMT units began to screech to a halt in the street, and still Don wandered amongst the cash that had been blown out of the bank, the glass, the twisted metal and the chunks of concreteÉuntil he saw it. A curly head. A dark, curly head.

Don must have teleported himself to Charlie, he had no memory of negotiating his way to him. His brother lay on top of another personÉa body. A quick look told Don all he needed to know about Charlie's mattress. A large goose egg was purpling and swelling on his forehead, and there were oozing cuts from who knows what on every surface that Don could see. He grasped Charlie's face between his hands, then lowered one, shaking, to his neck.

A pulse. God in heaven, a pulse.

"Medic!" He screamed for the EMTs he could see triaging bodies. "Medic! Medic!"

He wanted with every fiber of his being to lift Charlie up and cradle him, but he knew he shouldn't do that.

He heard movement behind him, saw an EMT's kit materialize beside him, followed by a woman in a bulky coat who shoved him unceremoniously aside and began assessing Charlie. Before Don could speak, she tossed an urgent "Mike! I need you on this one!" over her shoulder, and Don looked up to see who she was calling. A second EMT abandoned the body he was leaning over – Don saw him gently close the eyes, first, and was oddly touched, in the middle of this nightmare – and headed their direction.

Mike stopped suddenly, eyes on the ground. "I've got a hand!" he yelled, to no one in particular, and Charlie's EMT yelled back.

"Bring it! Maybe it's this guy's!"

Don, still kneeling as close to Charlie as she would let him, heard the words and turned his head away from Charlie's face. Unwilling, unhappy, unbelieving, he traced the rest of Charlie's still body.

He saw the stump that was the end of Charlie's left arm, bone glistening in the late afternoon sun, not bleeding nearly as much as you would thinkÉ

Don leaned tenderly away from his brother, carefully away from the two EMTs working on him, and threw up in the street.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Don did not speak as the trauma surgeon talked to his father.

It did not especially matter to him, what the man said.

He watched his father's face, gray and worried one moment, seeming to lighten into hope the next, and he tried not to resent it. Of course Alan would latch on to whatever hope was offered him. He had not seen it. He had not been there. He would not live the rest of his life with that vision burned onto his brain.

He noticed suddenly that his father was looking at him, smiling, and seemed to be waiting for something. "We have to be fast," Alan said. "Are you coming?"

Don blinked at him. He had no idea what he was talking about. "Wha?" His voice was weak, soft, and Alan frowned again.

"Are you sure they checked you out, son? Maybe they missed something…" Alan turned his head around looking for a doctor, or nurse.

Don pulled himself to his feet. He hadn't realized he was sitting down. "Dad. It's okay." Words, for some reason, were exhausting. "What?", he just repeated, when he had Alan's attention again.

"The doctor said that we can see him, before they take him up, but just for a minute. He's conscious."

Don felt the bile rise in his throat again. "Conscious?"

Alan's gaze was growing in concern. "Yes. Didn't you hear? The doctor said he only received a mild concussion…. Several cuts and bruises, of course, and he's very shaken up…"

Don actually laughed. So loudly that others turned to look at them. So harshly that Alan shuddered. "So what I saw on his…his arm, that's just a few stitches, right?"

Alan suddenly sat down again, pulling Don with him. He grasped Don behind the neck and forced him to look at him. "Yes. That's what the surgery is for. I am so sorry you had to see that – so sorry. Donnie, you have got to pull yourself together. The doctor said the success of this type of operation depends a great deal on a patient's attitude, and his support system. Charlie needs you, Donnie."

Don stared at his father, and slowly, powerfully, pulled away from him. Charlie needed him? For what, to cut his meat for the rest of his life? To watch a lifeless, misshapen mound of flesh bob around on the end of his arm, and pretend he didn't see it?

He stood up abruptly and started down the hall, for the men's room. He was going to throw up again.

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When he came back out, several minutes later, his father was gone and Megan, Larry and Colby were in the section of chairs they had just vacated. Don wobbled unsteadily toward them, and Colby came to meet him. "Your Dad went up with Charlie," he started, looking worriedly at his boss. "We'll go up with you."

They reached the others, who were also standing by this time. Don ignored Larry and looked stonily from Colby to Megan. "Who the hell did this? What happened? Why aren't you working the case?"

Megan tried to soothe him. "David's at the scene. We wanted to check on you and Charlie."

Don frowned at her. "You can't do anything for us here. You'd both do more good at the office."

Larry leapt in, trying to deflect Don. "Don, Alan tells me that Charles has an excellent prognosis. The odds of a successful replantation in cases such as this are very high, especially here at the UCLA Hand Center. I understand that's why Charles was medivaced to this location; the microsurgical and revascularization skills…"

Don turned on him, like a mother bear defending an endangered cub. "Shut-up! Just shut up!" He ran his own hand through his hair. "You didn't see it! None of you saw it!"

Don was practically yelling, and Larry took a step back. Megan adopted her own mother bear look, and Colby quickly stepped between her and Don. "I've seen things like that, Don," he said quietly. "The EMT teams on site are comparing it to a war zone. I saw things in Kuwait that I hope I never see again." He stepped even closer to Don, and spoke lowly. "I also saw amazing things happen there, medically – without the kind of resources Charlie has here. It can happen, Don. It can."

Don held Colby's eyes with his own, desperate to believe, terrified to hope. It wasn't just the hand. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his brother lying broken and literally torn apart on the street, surrounded by bodies…

He spun, suddenly, and took off in a jog for the restroom.

He was going to throw up again.

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After Don had dry heaved for a few minutes – he had long ago run out of any viable contributions to offer the porcelain god – he came out of the stall to face Colby, who silently offered him a damp washcloth and a paper cup of water. Grateful, Don didn't even care where Colby had managed to find them. He sank his face into the cool cloth for a few moments, then took the cup of water and rinsed his mouth a few times, spitting into the sink.

He rose to his full height and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked…shell-shocked. Seeing this first thing when he woke up wouldn't help Charlie, anyway. He turned and looked at Colby. "Give me a ride back to the scene," he ordered.

Colby's surprise registered on his own face. "Your father…", he began.

"My father will be fine. Send Larry up to him. Megan's with us. Our only job right now is to find out what happened at that bank."

Colby stuttered a little. "D-Don, you're technically a vic, here. You shouldn't be working this case, you should stay here with Ch-Charlie."

Don began walking toward the door, brushing past Colby. "You give me a ride to the scene, Agent Granger, or I swear to all that is holy, I will have your badge."

Colby sighed, reached in his pocket and looked at a parking stub. He handed it to Don. "My unit is parked here," he said, resigned. "Let me tell Megan, she came from a witness interview on our other case, so she drove her own vehicle. I'm right behind you." Don nodded curtly, opened the door and took off down the corridor, in the opposite direction from Megan and Larry.

Confused, they glanced at each other and then moved to meet Colby as he approached them. He turned serious eyes to them. "Larry, you should go wait with Alan. He shouldn't be alone."

Larry's hand crept toward his head, and after a tiny scratch, he nodded. "Of course. Should I keep you informed via cell phone?"

Colby and Megan both practically shouted an affirmative answer, and with one last look at Megan, Larry turned and began rapidly walking toward a bank of elevators.

Colby watch him go, and then looked again at Megan, who was staring at him, waiting. "I couldn't talk him down," he admitted. "He wants us all back at the scene." He turned to follow Don, took one step and then turned back to his partner. "Meg, you'd better call Merrick in on this one. I think Eppes is out of control."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

David was walking toward his own vehicle to return to the office when he recognized Colby and Don driving slowly past the police barricade. Surprised, he changed trajectory slightly and jogged to meet them, arriving just as Don slid out of the passenger seat.

David had heard from the EMTs on site about Charlie's serious injury. Concerned, he asked about him right away. "Don, hey, I thought you would still be at the hospital. How's Charlie?"

Don appeared to look at his chin for a moment, and then toward the former bank. "My father is with him," he answered brusquely. "Tell me what you've got."

David tried to sneak a look at Colby, but Granger's attention was also on the scene. He cleared his throat. "Um…we actually have evidence that there was one bomb, on a timer. It looks like it was planted inside the ATM, which limits our suspects."

"Bank employee," stated Granger.

David shook his head. "Not quite that limited. Over the weekends the machine is supplied fresh cash each day by an armored car service. On Mondays, like today, employees may not open the machine to withdraw weekend deposits until after 10:00 a.m. The woman responsible for that today, a…" David looked down at his notebook, "…Reneé Martin, we can't check with her to determine whether or not she'd done it yet, this morning."

Don pulled his attention from the scene and frowned at David. "Why not? Charlie and I got here at 9:45, I know that much." He paled, suddenly, remembering the last words he had said to Charlie as his brother hopped out of the SUV and took off in a jog for the bank. He had gone to CalSci to pick Charlie up for a 10 a.m. briefing of the team, regarding the patterns Charlie had picked up in the data he'd been given yesterday…damned if Don could even remember the case, right now. All he could remember was Charlie asking him to pull over so he could use the ATM, and his own halfway annoyed "Hurry up," when his brother had opened the door of the SUV. "Hurry up" were the last words Charlie had heard from him. As if disgusted by the memory, his own ears seemed to close, and he could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart. Eventually, he looked at David, saw his lips moving, and willed himself to hear.

"Don? Don?'

At first he just read David's lips, and then he began to hear the other agent calling him, as if from a distance, looking concerned. Don realized he had missed the answer to his question. "What? What about this…this Martin woman?"

This time David did meet Colby's eyes, then looked at Don again. "I said, she's one of the victims, Don, she's dead. Are you all right? I saw the air bags went off in your SUV, you must have been shaken up yourself."

Don looked away again and started walking toward the scene. "Well, she probably wouldn't blow herself up," he said, as if to a child. "It's got to be someone working for the armored car service."

Colby kept pace with him. "I'm sure she didn't blow herself up on purpose, Don. We don't know enough to eliminate her as a suspect, yet. Accidents happen."

Don stopped cold, suddenly. _Accidents happen._ The cororner's office was still removing body bags, and he watched them. Charlie could have been in one of those. Charlie's hand would probably be in a very small body bag in the hospital medical waste bin later this afternoon. His eyes were drawn to something forlorn and black, virtually ignored on the edge of the carnage, and his breath caught in his throat. It looked…Dear God, it looked like one of Charlie's shoes. His brother had actually been blown out of his shoes. Sickened, he turned away, determined not to throw up again.

He put his hand out. "Give me the keys," he ground out, looking at Colby. "I'm going back to the office to see what forensics has come up with."

Colby started to shake his head. "I'll drive," he offered, but Don interrupted.

"Now, please, Agent. You'll stay here and work the scene with David. Ride back with him, or Megan." Colby still didn't move, and appeared to be looking over Don's shoulder. "Agent Granger!"

Don felt a hand on his arm, and he tried to jerk away. He whipped his head around fiercely to glare directly into the gray and serious eyes of his boss. "Agent Granger," Director Merrick said, never taking his eyes off Don, "keep your keys. Agent Eppes will be riding with me."

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Don was led silently to the Director's vehicle, and he settled in the passenger seat, trying to care. They had passed a bloodstain amongst the debris on the way, and now all Don could see again was Charlie, still and quiet, not responding when the EMTs jabbed large bore needles into him. There wasn't so much as a whimper when the bloody stump of his arm was lifted and wrapped in layers and layers of gauze, not even a groan when his hand, similarly wrapped, was laid carefully on his stomach, like a grisly birthday present.

They were on the freeway before Don focused on something outside of his head, and realized that they were headed the wrong direction. He looked accusingly at the Director. "This isn't the way to the office."

Merrick glanced at Don quickly, then back to the road. He spoke quietly, yet firmly. There was no mistaking who was in charge. "You have a choice, Agent Eppes. You can excuse yourself from working this case — from working at all, in fact, until you've been cleared by a bureau psychiatrist — or I will suspend your entire team. I should probably pull them all off this case anyway."

Don slammed a hand into the dashboard. "That's ridiculous," he growled. "All right, maybe I shouldn't be on this case, but not working at all? I wasn't even injured!"

The Director checked his rear view mirror and hit the signal to indicate he was taking the next exit. "The last thing any agent in my command needs is someone he or she is counting on for back-up having a PTSD moment in the field. This is non-negotiable, Agent Eppes."

Don saw the hospital looming in the distance. He fumed. "Where are you taking me?"

Director Merrick looked at him again, and the gentleness and compassion Don saw in his eyes, from such an unexpected source, nearly pushed him over the edge. "I'm taking you where you belong," answered Merrick.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Right now, Don hated that he was so damn rational. He hated that he could find the self-control to follow his boss silently through the hospital, as if he were an obedient child. He hated knowing he hadn't done what he wanted to at the scene of the bombing, or in the hospital parking lot — decked the idiot, job be damned. He absolutely couldn't abide knowing that part of him valued his job enough that he wouldn't even risk it for Charlie.

Not that rearranging Merrick's face would really help Charlie any. He felt the steam rising, again. The only way Don could help Charlie right now was by finding out who had done this to him…if he concentrated on that, if he held onto his anger, he could almost convince himself that knowing that would make a difference. Having someone to blame would somehow erase the bad timing that had Charlie standing in front of that exact bank at that exact time on this exact day, wouldn't it?

He almost worked himself up enough to make a break for it, when he felt a hand on his back, guiding him, and found himself at a door, eye level with a sign that promised him inside was a private family waiting area. He stood there for so long that eventually a hand reached around his shoulder and pushed the door open, another hand shoved at the small of his back, and Don stumbled over the threshold.

Alan, sitting dismally in a corner chair, looked up at the sound, and the abject relief on his face tugged at Don's guilt-strings. Before he could speak to his father, he saw the relief replaced with a frown, and worry, as Alan's eyes took in Director Merrick, entering the room behind Don.

The Director passed him and approached Alan. The two had never actually met, although Alan had seen the Director in television interviews, and knew who he was. Merrick extended a hand. "Mr. Eppes?"

Alan started to stand, and the Director stopped him. "Please, keep your seat. My name is Richard Merrick, I'm the Director of the Los Angeles office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Alan shook his hand, trying to see beyond him, to Don. "I know. Thank you for coming." He looked at Larry, sitting beside him. "This is Dr. Fleinhardt, a close friend."

The Director nodded and moved to shake Larry's hand. "I've seen your name in connection with Dr. Eppes' on some of our projects. It's good to finally meet you." Larry just shook his hand silently, apparently stunned into silence.

Merrick turned to the side and reached out toward Don, barely snagging an arm and dragging him up beside him. "I found this," he smiled at Alan. "I thought perhaps it was yours."

Alan visibly started, and then a slow smile began to spread over his face. He watched the discomfort on Don's face and admired the man who could exercise some control over him. "Yes, I believe it is," he answered.

Don jerked away from Merrick and took a few steps to sit next to his father, but remained silent. The Director's eyes twinkled at Alan. "You can keep it for a few days," he said, then looked at Don, and his eyes were steel again. "Agent Eppes knows the conditions that must be met before he returns to work."

Alan glanced tentatively at Don, and decided he didn't want to go there, yet. He looked back at the Director, and indicated the other chairs in the room. "Please, sit down."

"Just for a moment," Merrick agreed, taking a chair and moving it a little so that it faced the three of them before he sat down. "How is your son?"

Alan's face visibly aged, and he ran a hand over his chin before he dropped it to his lap. "They say he's a good candidate for…" he turned to Larry. "What do they call it?"

Larry cleared his throat. "Replantation."

Alan nodded. "Oh. Right." He refocused on Merrick. "Because it was not a crushing injury, and he's young, and he was brought here right away…they're…putting it back." He couldn't seem to make himself be any more specific, and he was glad, feeling Don tense next to him.

The Director nodded grimly. "His other injuries?"

"He was very shaken, of course…he never really understood what happened, although he did regain consciousness for a few minutes. He has a mild concussion, several superficial shrapnel wounds…God," Alan suddenly said, and his voice took on a hint of desperation. "My son has shrapnel wounds."

In the ensuing silence, Don leaned back in his chair a little, draping his arm over his father's shoulders. Alan leaned into the touch. Merrick watched them, and nodded to himself. Finally, he spoke again, looking directly at Alan with those compassionate eyes that Don had just seen for the first time himself, today. "I'm so sorry this happened, Mr. Eppes. I assure you, we will do our best to find out exactly _what_ happened. Dr. Eppes is a valuable asset to our organization…and a vital part of your family, I'm sure."

Alan just nodded silently. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"I've heard remarkable things about the work done here," continued Don's boss. "Dr. Eppes is receiving the best of care." He stood to leave, returning his chair to its original position. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a business card, which he offered to Alan. "Please don't hestitate to contact me if I can help in any way. My private numbers are listed."

Alan leaned forward to accept the card and shook Merrick's hand again. "Thank you," he said, sincerely, pocketing the card. He sensed Don straightening in his chair, and finally he heard Don manage to join the conversation.

"We appreciate this," Don said to his knees. He raised his eyes and exposed his fear and anger and frustration for a moment. "I appreciate this."

Director Merrick threw him a bone. "I'm sure your team will keep you informed on the investigation," he said. With a final smile at Alan and a confused look at the apparently mute Fleinhardt, he turned and left the room.

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The men remained silent for a few moments until Larry was hit by a bolt of lightning and almost leaped from his chair. "I'll go to the cafeteria," he declared. "Would you care for something to eat, Alan? Don?"

"Coffee," they both said at once, and Larry nodded.

"Yes. I believe I will be joining you today, although I usually steer clear of that beverage." He bobbed his head and smiled at them. "I shall return."

Alan waited until the door closed behind him, then shifted in his chair to face Don. "Are you all right?"

Don stood and began pacing the small room. "Don't ask me that," he answered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have, I should have…"

Alan's voice was tired. "You did what you could, Donnie. You always do what you can. Sit with me, please?"

His father hardly ever made a direct request, and it was powerful enough to drop Don into the chair again. "I can't make it stop. It's like an endless loop." He chuckled, a little. "Now I know what Charlie means, when he gets obsessed with something and complains that the numbers won't leave him alone."

Alan patted Don's knee. "Your brother will complain again, Donnie. Even…Even if this does not work, if the worst happens…he's alive. He's alive, son, and that is what matters." Don felt his heart squeeze as he watched his father tear up. "My Lord, when I think that I could have lost you both, when I think that the two of you were that close to a bomb…"

It was at that moment, finally, that Don managed to pull away from his own grief, his own anger, his own fear and frustration. It was at that moment that he leaned over, and took Alan in his arms, and held him as tightly as he could.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Colby, Megan and David sat around the end of a conference table, pouring over manila file folders and computer print-outs, passing them to each other for double-checking. Colby dropped a folder heavily on the table and leaned back in his chair. "I'm telling you, all these people are clean. The bank teller in charge of the ATM, the armored car service employees…" He looked at David. "We must have missed something. Are you sure the bomb was in the ATM?"

David sighed, dropping the print-out he had been studying. "That's what the CSI guys said on scene. They traced back through the impact zone, and they found scorched pieces of the ATM that indicated it wasn't just blown apart in the blast, it was torn apart at the base of the detonation."

Both men turned to Megan, who was still studying a print-out intently. Colby sat up a little in his chair. "What? Got something?"

She shook her head a little. "I don't know. I think I recognize this string of hydrocarbons, the long chains formed from smaller units."

David and Colby looked at each other. "What the hell did she say?", Colby asked, and David shrugged.

Megan raised her eyes to them. "So I enjoyed high school chemistry," she said, reaching for the phone in the middle of their papers. She punched in a few numbers, and waited.

"Trevor. Hey, it's Agent Reeves, in the bullpen. Listen, I'm looking at this report of what you found on that section of twisted ATM, from the bombing this morning. I almost recognize the chemical make-up, but…" she nodded mutely for a moment, listening. She laid the print-out on the table and started to scribble on it. "What's that called? 'Addition polymerization', got it. Uh…why would you do that? What did this substance used to be?" Her eyes widened, and she looked at Colby. "I see. Thank you, yes, that could change everything. I appreciate the rush on this, Trevor."

She replaced the receiver and smiled broadly. "I think I have a new line on suspects."

David was good with that. The current batch was getting them nowhere. "What did you get?"

"According to Trevor in the lab, the sticky stuff found on part of the ATM used to be a rubber trash can. He said it's possible the bomb was actually in the trash can – you know, the small ones usually found near the ATM so people can throw away their receipts."

"Idiots," put in Granger. "They should take them home and shred them."

Megan looked at him, momentarily distracted. She concentrated again on David. "Anyway, if the trash container had been shoved up under the ATM, when the bomb detonated it would have virtually destroyed the polymer and thrust up through the machine, making it appear as though it was actually planted inside."

David allowed himself a smile. "The ATM was in a sheltered alcove that was actually part of the building. Carpet, and everything."

Megan gave him a tiny smile in return. "Right. Granted, anyone off the street could have had access to that."

Colby suddenly stood. "We should eliminate the obvious, first. The bank has a cleaning service that comes in every night, right? They would empty the trash, clean the alcove…"

David and Megan both smiled at him. "Never fails, Granger," teased Megan. "You always catch up with us sooner or later."

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When Larry came back bearing coffee, Don accepted one and spoke to no-one in general. "So how long is this supposed to take?"

Alan sipped his coffee and checked his watch. "It's been less than three hours…so maybe five more?"

Don almost dropped his cup. "This is an eight-hour surgery?"

Larry, pawing through some magazines on a table, glanced at him. "Oh my, yes, Don. At minimum. Revascularization microsurgery is an incredible thing, a very intricate procedure. The mind reels, thinking of those minute, tiny, blood vessels, all that is involved in a replantation…"

"Larry!" Alan spoke sharply, watching Don turn a little green. "Please don't reel our minds anymore right now."

Larry reddened a little, chose a magazine and reclaimed his chair on the other side of Alan. "Do forgive me," he said, quietly. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."

Alan threw a tiny smile in his direction. "No, Larry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have barked like that. I know that…there will be things we'll need to know. I…I guess I'm just not ready to hear everything, yet. One piece at a time, you know?"

Don heard the expression, and of course it made him think of the pieces of Charlie surgeons were now trying to unite, the pieces of Charlie lying on the sidewalk, the pieces of Charlie that didn't make sense, in pieces. His stomach rebelled again and he gagged on his coffee. His father pounded him on the back, and he managed to keep from redecorating the waiting room. He leaned forward a little and set the coffee down on a table. He stayed in that position, and dropped his head into his hands. "I want to kill someone," he stated, matter-of-fact. The words bounced off the walls, and while he was surprised that he had actually said that out loud, he wasn't surprised to know that it was true.

Alan left his hand on Don's back, and he started rubbing slow circles, the way he used to when the boys were children, and they were sick, or had nightmares. He stared at his own coffee. "Yes," he finally acknowledged. "Yes, son, I can see that you do."

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At hour four, Larry and Alan left for a walk around the grounds. Cell phones were not permitted in the hospital, but there was a landline in the waiting room, and Don used it while they were gone to call Megan. He learned that while bank and armored car employees were still being processed, the focus of the investigation had widened to include employees of the bank's cleaning service. She assured him that forensics was on top of things, informed him that Merrick had assigned another team to work with them on the case, reassured him that the bombing was top priority. Don understood, hanging up, that some part of the conversation should make him happy; at least satisfy a part of him. He also understood that instead, it had made him feel worse. He resented not being able to help. His hands had been effectively tied behind his back by Merrick.

And the second that cliché passed through his mind, he held his own hands up in front of him, flexed his fingers, and wondered if Charlie would ever do that again.

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Around hour five, a nurse came and informed them that surgery was going well. It was only half over. All three of them wilted when she said that, and she offered Alan a small pager. "You've been here for hours," she noted. "You all need something to eat. Take a break, go to the cafeteria — we can reach you with this pager, if we need to."

Alan looked at his watch. Charlie's surgery had begun around 1, and although the minutes had dragged like hours, he was still surprised to realize that it was dinner time. He started to tell Don and Larry to go and bring something back for him, but he knew as soon as he looked at Don there was no hope of prying him off that chair as long as Alan was didn't move. He reminded himself that both sons needed him, now, and he could actually do something for this one.

So Alan stood creakily, and led them all to dinner; a dinner largely ignored by Don, who finally got a milk shake to settle his stomach and sat back a few feet from the table, carefully not looking at Alan's soup or Larry's meatloaf. Alan watched him, concerned, even wondered if the poor man had to contend with the flu on top of all this. Don hadn't been right since that morning. Alan was about to ask him about it, when it occurred to him – nothing had been right since that morning.

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During hour six — just before hour seven — Alan left the waiting room again for a solo walk. There was no television in the room, and he would not have turned it on if there was, but he soon found a more general waiting area, where there was one. He stood in front of it, careful not to block anyone's view, and he watched the top story on the local 7 o' clock news: footage from the bombing.

First a still-shot of the bank was shown, and then film of what remained. The film was from directly after the bombing; people were still running frantically, smoke arose from various piles of rubble, chaos ensued. While the lens focused on the reporter in the foreground, Alan could just make out Don, kneeling on the sidewalk, almost out of camera range to the left. There were EMTs next to him, and Alan knew what they all must be looking at.

His stomach flipped, and he turned sharply on his heel to walk to the very back of the waiting room, away from the television. He sat down and made himself breathe, made himself remember that they were alive, they were both alive…and then he prayed, for the souls of those who weren't.

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By hour nine, they had all begun to pace the small family waiting room. Passing Larry at a corner, Don thought they must look liked caged tigers. Pausing to let Don around him, Alan was sure they looked like expectant fathers. Right hand holding onto his right ear as he approached the door again, Larry almost smiled to think of what Charlie could tell them about the pattern of their walking.

Eventually they stood in an awkward triangle near their chairs, too tired to walk anymore, too sore to sit any longer, too worried to make polite conversation. Alan rubbed a hand over his mouth. Don, lack of food having given him a headache, pushed at his eyes. Larry still clutched at his ear. They were in these positions when the nurse came back just before hour 10, and she started at the sight, suddenly reminded of the plush "See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil" monkeys she had played with as a girl.

She looked so startled that Alan almost panicked. He dropped his hand. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

She rushed to reassure him. "No, no, everything is fine. Your son is being transferred to recovery now. The doctor will be in soon with more details."

The three men looked at each other, then melted wordlessly into their chairs, and didn't even notice when the nurse left. While they did not speak, while they waited for the doctor, Don did reach over and squeeze his father's hand for a moment. Alan smiled tentatively at him, soon distracted by the weary entrance of the surgeon. "This is Dr. Trendell," Alan supplied. He touched Don's knee, then left his hand there. "My son, Don — and our friend, Larry."

The doctor nodded at them and dropped into a chair, exhausted. "Please don't take my lack of enthusiasm as indicative of anything," he began. "I worked an 8-hour-day _before_ Charlie showed up. The surgery went quite well. It took a little longer than expected because we were able to repair more than we anticipated. Charlie's fingers were receiving good blood flow before we finished closing."

Alan smiled, patted Don's knee. "It was successful then, the replan- the replan-"

"Replantation," offered Larry.

The doctor smiled, a little. "We have great hope for this case. I don't expect any limb rejection, and as long as we can avoid infections, things look good." He leaned forward a little and used one hand to indicate a position about and inch-and-a-half above his other wrist. "From the site of the original amputation to the tip of Charlie's longest finger is almost 10 inches. Nerves grow at the rate of about an inch a month. It will be 10 months before we're prepared to state with certainty how much use of his hand Charlie will have."

The word "amputation" had slammed into Don like a fist. "It will never be normal," he mumbled. His father looked at him quickly and took his hand off his knee.

Dr. Trendell tilted his head. "No. He will never regain full use of that hand, you're correct. We consider anything above 60 percent an excellent outcome." He looked specifically at Don. "As I told your father earlier, the patient's attitude can make a big difference in these cases. Your brother will need positive influences around him."

Beyond tired, beyond heartbroken, beyond all reason, Don considered for one long moment how long it would take him to close the gap between them and pummel the pompous ass into the floor. What the hell did this guy know about what Charlie needed? He'd spent maybe five minutes with a conscious, concussed, confused Charlie. A low growl sounded in his throat, and Don felt his father's steadying hand on the back of his neck, massaging gently. At least the doctor was smart enough to look away. He picked Larry, since Alan was sitting too close to Don.

"He'll be in recovery several hours. As you know, he was under a long time. I'm sure he'll be out the rest of the night. You should all go home and get some rest yourselves."

No-one leapt from the chair — they never did — so he sighed and tried again. "Look, Charlie isn't going to know what hit him, when he wakes up. He barely regained consciousness, and he never really understood what his injury was. Trust me on this — you will need some reserves of your own to draw on tomorrow. Now, I can inform him before you come back in the morning…"

"No!" said three voices at once. The two younger men yielded the floor to Alan. "Thank-you, Dr. Trendell, but I think Charlie should hear about this from us. Later, you can give him details…" Alan actually smiled, the ghost of a smile. "Believe me, Charlie will want details." Larry smiled with him, imagining his friend letting loose with all the questions he could come up with, and even Don had to suppress a grin, thinking of the ways Charlie would find to drive this guy crazy.

The doctor nodded, then stood. "Very well," he said, and waited until the three of them were standing with him. "That's our deal. You all go home tonight, and I will let you talk to Charlie first in the morning. We'll let you in at 7, and not a second before."

Don frowned, staring at the floor.

He wasn't sure, but he felt as if they had just made a deal with the devil.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_There were elephants hanging in the trees, their long, thin trunks looped over bare branches. Their heavy haunches hovered over the earth, threateningly close. Charlie was the earth, so this concerned him. It was obvious, from his position below the elephants, that the trees would not support their weight for long. The branches were already sagging. It was inevitable that they should begin to fall. In fact, they must have begun already, for the earth was sore. Every grain of dirt ached, every blade of grass had been flattened. Charlie, as the earth, truly feared the next descending elephant. He wasn't at all sure that he could take any more._

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Alan sat at Charlie's bedside, hand brushing back curls from his forehead, waiting for him to wake up. He seemed warm to the touch, and Alan hoped he wasn't working on a fever. He told himself it was because the room was kept at an elevated temperature, to increase blood flow through Charlie's hand. Alan was sweating himself. Occasionally he would look at Charlie's arm, wrapped in more gauze than he had known existed in the free world, elevated on several pillows, so that it lay above his heart. He would look at Charlie's fingers, oddly pudgy and slightly pink, and wonder what he couldn't see.

Don sat on the other side of the bed, fully engaged in a panic attack that Alan couldn't see. Ever since they had come into the room, half an hour ago, and he had gotten his first look at those fingers, Don had become increasingly convinced that an astronomical mistake had been made. Those sausages did not belong to his brother. Everything was so…horrifying, at the scene. Everyone had assumed that the hand they found belonged to Charlie, just because he was missing one. Don certainly hadn't taken a good look at it; and now, he had let them spend ten hours sewing it to his brother. It would never "take", of course, it was a foreign body and Charlie's body would reject it. Charlie would not be able to survive that, Don was sure. He saw the sweat on Charlie's forehead; it was probably happening already. Don sat speechless and terrified, having some difficulty getting enough air, and wondering how to break the news to his father.

Larry stood awkwardly at the end of the bed, dividing his attention between Charlie and Don. Frankly, he was more concerned about Don at the moment. At least Charlie's breathing was even, and if he moaned sometimes, it was because he was fighting the anesthesia and morphine, trying to come to the surface. Don's breathing was ragged and rapid, his face white and pinched. Alan's attention was totally on Charlie, and Larry wondered if he should say something to him. He had finally decided to, had opened his mouth, in fact, when Charlie won his battle with a shuddering gasp.

Four eyes locked on his face – Don was still staring at his bandaged arm – and Charlie's own eyelids fluttered. He peered from beneath them and focused first on Larry, at the end of the bed. "Shhupp," he rasped. Alan was waiting with ice chips, and he spooned some into Charlie's mouth.

"It's all right, son, you're all right. Just take it easy."

Charlie sucked the ice and tried to track his father's voice. By the time the ice was melted he gave up and closed his eyes. "Shore 'em 'p," he whispered, more clearly this time.

Alan brushed his hands over Charlie's cheek. "Shore up what, son?"

"Trees," Charlie breathed, "elfants too heavy…"

Alan spooned in some more ice chips. "Wake up now, Charlie. It's time to wake up. We're right here, waiting, your…" Alan glanced up and saw that Don's chair was empty. He looked at Larry, confused, but Larry couldn't help. He had approached the head of Charlie's bed when his friend began to awake, and Don had stood. Larry thought Don was coming, too — but he must have escaped out the door, instead. Larry shrugged, and Alan turned his attention back to Charlie. "Larry and I are here, son, Just try to wake up, for us."

Charlie rolled his eyes until he finally found his father's. "No elfants?"

Alan smiled, and stroked Charlie's cheek. "No, son. No elephants. You're in a hospital. Do you think you can handle a small sip of water?" He placed a straw in Charlie's mouth, but nothing happened.

Larry reached for the cup. "Alan, if I may?" Alan let him have it, and watched Larry hold one finger over the end of the straw while tipping the cup, and Alan saw the straw fill with water. Larry then removed it from the cup and gently placed the end of the straw in Charlie's mouth, then uncovered the other end. Fascinated, Alan saw Charlie swallow when he was confronted with a mouthful of water. Once he had remembered how to do that, he seemed to want more, and he looked at Larry. The physicist replaced the straw in the cup, and this time placed it in Charlie's mouth in the ordinary way, and Alan was thrilled to see Charlie figure out how to drink, again. Larry only allowed one more sip before removing the cup. "More later, Charles," he said softly.

Alan laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "How are you feeling, son?"

Charlie blinked slowly a few times, conducting an internal assessment. "Headache," he finally answered. "Everything ache."

"I'm sure," murmured Alan. "Now that you're awake, we'll get the doctor and he'll check you out, then give you some more pain meds, okay?"

Charlie frowned. "Happen?"

This was the tricky part. Just seconds ago, Charlie had been convinced there were elephants hanging from trees. Whatever Alan told him now, he would surely have to repeat later, and he wasn't sure he could do that. While he was thinking, he heard Larry's voice.

"What do you remember, Charles?"

Charlie rolled his eyes toward Larry. He didn't seem to want to move his head. "Bad muffin," he answered, and Larry smiled at Alan.

"Dr. Henderson brought muffins to our faculty meeting yesterday morning. They really were quite atrocious." He looked back at Charlie. "That's correct, Charles. They were bad muffins. Yesterday was Monday, and you have no classes on Mondays until 11:30. Don picked you up for a briefing at the FBI office. Do you remember that?"

Charlie shut his eyes in concentration. He only got them open to half mast the next time, Alan could tell he was going to fall asleep again soon. "Don?"

Alan didn't know if he was simply echoing Larry, or actually asking for his brother. "He's fine, Charlie. Don's fine."

Charlie tried to shift a little on the bed, was immediately assailed by falling elephants, no matter what his father said, and a moan escaped him.

Alan's hand crept back to his forehead. "It's all right now, son, you can sleep some more."

Charlie's eyes slid shut. "Don's ok," he said, both in relief and fear. He didn't know why, but he was suddenly afraid that Don really wasn't okay.

Alan soothed him. "I promise. He's here, he just…stepped out of the room for a moment. You'll see him next time you wake up."

"MMmmmffpphh," Charlie answered, eyes closed, and soon his even breathing told them he was asleep again.

Alan sighed and sat back, and looked up at Larry. "It's nearly eight. You have classes."

Larry continued to stare at Charlie, a hand creeping toward his own hair. "I truly wish that I could stay, Alan. Would you like me to come back, right after class, to help you tell him?"

Alan tried to be diplomatic. The last thing he wanted at the initial telling was a 27-syllable-word dissertation delivered almost randomly. That was, however, exactly what he knew Charlie would want, later. "I think Don and I will just give him the basics, today," he finally answered. "Maybe you can come back this evening, when he's more alert. He's going to have questions I think you would deal with better."

Larry nodded, and began backing toward the door. "Of course. Yes. I'm sure that's the most viable approach." He smiled before he turned to leave. "I'll see you this evening, Alan. Please call, if you need anything."

Alan stood to walk partway to the door and smile himself, and was both incensed and incredibly relieved when Don came in as Larry was going out. "Where the hell did you go?"

Don looked chagrined. "I'm sorry. I…" God, it pained him to admit this. "I was losing it. I was sitting there, staring at it, and I convinced myself that they put the wrong hand on him. Somebody else's. Honest, Dad, I couldn't breathe, and it's so hot in here…"

Alan crossed the few feet between them and drew Don into a quick embrace, then stepped back and smiled at him. "I think it's like puzzle pieces, Don. If it had been the wrong hand, it wouldn't have fit."

Don looked away, embarrassed. "Yeah, well, things weren't making a lot of sense, at the time. I had to get some air."

Alan moved to stand beside him, so that they were both facing Charlie's bed. "It's all right. You're doing fine. I want to be here for you, too, you know. This experience — being so near a bomb detonating, finding your brother so seriously injured. I'm sure it's been difficult." He snuck a sideways glance at Don. "What does Merrick want you to do before you can go back?"

Don made a face. "Department shrink. He's concerned about PTSD. Did Charlie wake all the way up?"

Alan knew Don was trying to change the subject. Well, two could play at that game. "Sort-of. Talked about elephants and trees for a while, then he had some water and seemed a little more alert. He's in a lot of pain. The last thing he remembers is the faculty meeting at school yesterday morning. He wanted to know if you were all right, though. Merrick's right. Your job is dangerous enough. Would you like working in the field with someone else this had happened to, if you didn't know that he was ready to be there?"

Don shifted uncomfortably. "I never said I wouldn't do it," he mumbled, "eventually. Did you and Larry tell him?"

Alan shook his head. "Larry got as far as reminding him that you picked him up, but we were already losing him by then. I didn't have time to tell him about the bomb, or his hand…He'll stay awake longer next time."

Don watched his brother sleep, from a distance. He watched his face, still repelled by the lump on the pillows. "How do you think he'll handle it?" Don was thinking about a couple of months ago, when Charlie had lost a jump drive and had entered a nearly two-week funk while he reconstructed the data. He was remembering Charlie refusing to eat because he was so angry, and he was surprised, stunned even, by his father's answer.

Alan sighed. "He can't take it much harder than you have."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Charlie woke again around 9:30, and didn't remember the elephants, or the fact that he had already talked to his father and Larry. Alan repeated the ice chips, and then Charlie took a drink without the straw trick. Leaning over the bed, Alan handed the cup to Don, standing on the other side, to put on the bedside table. Charlie watched them warily, wondering at his father's grayness and his brother's grim demeanor. His head was still killing him, and he still couldn't differentiate between the parts of his body that hurt. He felt as if he had been trapped in a dryer, or something, and hurtled about for hours. Don was refusing to meet his eyes, and it was scaring Charlie a little, so he looked at his father. "Wha happen?", he whispered, and cleared his throat a little.

Alan smoothed the hair on his forehead a few times and looked toward Don, then back at Charlie. "You were hurt, son. A case of bad timing. You had Don pull over so you could use an ATM yesterday morning – do you remember?"

Charlie shook his head, forgetting his headache, and immediately squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.

"Careful, son, you have a concussion. Just use words now, okay?"

Charlie pried his eyes open again, blinking against the light. "'Kay. Robbery?"

Alan moved his hand down so that it rested on Charlie's shoulder. "No, son, not a robbery. There was a bomb." He watched Charlie's eyes widen, watched the fear set in. Charlie turned his head carefully toward Don.

"Hurt?" he asked, anxious.

Alan waited for Don to reassure his brother and was a little taken aback with the brisk, "No. I was down the street, waiting in the SUV. I'm fine." Don didn't even touch Charlie when he said it, or smile, and his tone was almost automaton.

Charlie had caught it too, but he couldn't name it, he didn't know what was wrong. He searched Don's face for cuts, or bruises, and saw none. He was standing there, not lying in another hospital bed, so he must really be all right…something was just ≤i≥wrong≤/i≥ about him, though.

Charlie looked back at his father, wincing again as he turned his head. "Concussion?"

"Yes, son, a mild one. You were thrown around a lot, I'm sure everything hurts right now."

Charlie closed his eyes. That explained the dryer theory, at least. He tried to feel each extremity, tried to identify what he felt. Eventually, his eyes popped open again. "Hand," he said.

Alan started a little. Did Charlie remember something from the ER? "Hand?", he echoed, waiting to see.

"Hand ok. Everything else hurts."

Alan dropped his head for a moment. Charlie was trying to make a joke. Dear God in Heaven, Alan did not think he could do this. He didn't want Charlie to hear it first from his doctor, though, and it didn't look like Don was going to bail him out anytime soon. He took a deep breath and raised his head again, forced himself to smile. He rubbed Charlie's shoulder a little. "Sweetheart…" he began, and Charlie blanched at the uncommon endearment. What the hell was wrong?

"Daddy?" he heard himself say, and this time Alan winced, and looked away. Charlie was really getting freaked out here. He looked to Don for help, but his brother was sitting down now, and looking at the wall over Charlie's head. He looked frantically back to Alan, who turned at that moment and met his eyes.

"Don't be frightened, son. Don't be afraid. It will be all right." He spoke clearly, steadily, left his hand always on Charlie's shoulder. "Your left hand was somehow severed, son. Care at the scene was immediate and excellent, and it was a very clean injury. Surgeons were able to reattach it last night – but it will be some time before you feel anything past a few inches above your wrist." Alan took another breath, a cleansing breath, and studied Charlie's face.

The first emotion he identified was doubt, then complete refusal to believe as he sensed movement in Charlie's arm and knew that he was trying to lift it. Charlie's eyes flitted to the large gauze mound and stared at it for a while, then at the ceiling. He struggled with words. "That's…you're…but…shit." He closed his eyes and took his own deep breath, even though it hurt bruised ribs. He opened them again and looked at Alan, still struggling to take it all in. "They put it back?"

Alan nodded. "Fancy name for it, Larry will tell you. Your surgeon says things went very well. That's why it's so hot in here," he added, lamely. "Something to do with blood flow. No caffeine for a while, either. Oh. And don't start smoking."

Charlie looked at Don again, and finally identified what he had been seeing, all morning. Don was disgusted with him. Don was repelled by him. He thought about how his lower arm must look and didn't blame him. He had become some Frankensteinian monster. This wasn't happening. It wasn't right, for God to rip off his hand and use the reprehensible result to rip away his brother, too. In Charlie's still fuzzy head, the two became entwined. How could he fix this? Maybe if he just knocked the damn thing off…

Concentrating on using his upper arm muscles, Charlie managed to move his hand on the pillow an eighth of an inch. This was not going to help him slam it into the rail, like he intended. Frustrated, angry, confused, he lashed out at his father, and tried to roll away from his hand. "Go away!"

Alan came back at him, gently, "Hush, now, son…"

Charlie screamed. Barely able to speak over a whisper five minutes ago, now he yelled as if he were at a football game. "Alone! Go!" He began thrashing his good arm, tethered to an IV pole, and threatened to pull the lines loose. He sobbed in the middle of his yell, thinking of the look of disgust on Don's face, and knowing everyone would look at him like that forever. "LEAVE!" Don had stood and was fighting with Charlie's good arm, trying to be gentle and yet firm. "STOP!" Charlie yelled, and then his screams ceased becoming identifiable words.

Alan had pushed the call button when Charlie had first begun to get upset. He continued to speak quietly to Charlie, trying not to let his own fear and heartbreak enter his voice, and was relieved beyond measure to see a pair of hands he didn't recognize plunging a needle into Charlie's IV port. Almost immediately, his screaming and thrashing slowed, and within seconds he lay still, and quiet, and pale again against the pillow, eyes closed.

Alan let out a shaky breath and felt himself sink to a chair as his knees buckled. He looked wordlessly across the bed into the compassionate eyes of Charlie's nurse. "I'm guessing you finally told him", she said.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

After the struggle with Charlie, Don felt himself nearing panic again, and once he had made sure his father was all right, he exited the room and found a place where he could use his cell. He forced himself to stop thinking about what he had just witnessed and concentrate on the case, and called Megan.

"I talked with Larry earlier," she opened the conversation. "He said Charlie is doing as well as can be expected. We'd all like to see him, but maybe we should give him a day?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Don answered, unwilling to be distracted. "Anything new?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Colby pulled something on a 'Sam Davison'. Works for the cleaning service. He's been flagged by several agencies. He's a member of something called Purity Reigns, and he's written several racist and moralistically judgmental treatises, letters to various politicians, radical right newspapers…even mainstream publications have printed some of his milder tomes. _Freedom Now_, an L.A.-based underground paper, printed some very specific stuff just last month. Rants against the amalgamation of society, and the danger Jewish people posed to the 'pure, white nation'."

Don stopped her. "Jewish? You think this was anti-Semitic?"

"National Bank was purchased last year by a syndicate of Jewish businessmen. It's a possible link." Megan's voice grew in excitement. "Get this. Davison was a suspect early-on in that abortion clinic bombing in San Diego last year, but they never had enough to charge him. Had to let him leave the county when he wanted to move here."

Don's gut tensed. "Interrogation?"

"Colby and David are headed for his house now. Based on the letters, we got a probable cause warrant. Ben Jacobs' team is going to handle the search while David and Colby bring him in for questioning."

"I want to see it."

Silence. Then, hesitantly. "I'm not sure Merrick will allow that. He's keeping a close eye on this one, and he doesn't want you anywhere near it. Think about it, Don. If this is the guy, do you want the case compromised, possibly thrown out of court later?"

Already overheated from Charlie's room, beads of sweat began to drip off Don's forehead and he clutched his phone tighter. "Put him in 3, use the video feed to forensics. I won't even be on the same floor."

"And after you see something you don't like, how long will it take you to knock out whoever is with you and take the back stairs?"

Don barely refrained from calling her a "bitch" out loud. He tried to think of another argument.

"Don." Megan's voice was firm. "We want this guy. Merrick himself will be watching this interrogation, and you need to trust your team. You may be the senior agent, but we're all good at what we do. Let us do it."

Don closed his eyes and banged his head on the nearest wall, startling a passing candy striper. "Dammit…I do, Reeves, I know you can all do this. I'm just…crazed, here." Don was horrified to hear himself revealing part of the scene in Charlie's room. "We just told him. Well, Dad told him, I couldn't even look at him. It was…beyond description, Meg. I need to do something for him."

She gentled her voice. "I'm sorry, Don. I'm with Merrick on this one. You really need to see someone about this. You were a victim too, Don, twice. You were physically impacted by the bombing, and emotionally devastated when you found your brother. We aren't being hard-asses by sending you for a psych eval, Don, at least I'm not. I genuinely care about you as a friend, and your entire family. I hope you know that by now."

Don banged his head on the wall again, It should make him feel better, to know that he couldn't get one past Agent Reeves. Maybe that meant Davison wouldn't either.

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Shortly after Charlie's 10 a.m. meltdown, Dr. Trendell had arrived and checked his vitals, then lifted his hand and inspected his fingers. He smiled and showed Alan how he could push back on them, causing the blood to drain from them, and then let go and watch them immediately pink up again. "This is excellent," he said, and Alan tried to believe him.

"What did that nurse give him?", he asked, glancing at Charlie worriedly. His son had slept through the entire exam.

"A pretty strong hit of Thorazine," answered the surgeon. "It's used for anxiety in extreme cases, but the main reason we use it here is because it has been found to have secondary benefits. It dilates tiny blood vessels in the fingers, encouraging blood fill."

The doctor carefully placed Charlie's hand back on the pillows and scribbled in a chart. "I'll leave him on IV fluids through noon tomorrow, then we'll try adding clear liquids for a few meals. I also want him out of bed in a chair a few times tomorrow. Just make sure his arm is always elevated above his heart, and if you see any signs of distress, or discoloration in the fingers, you call someone right away." He finished scribbling and looked at Alan. "Hopefully he'll be on soft foods, and walking short distances, by Thursday evening, and a regular diet by Friday. I may be able to release him Saturday morning."

Alan gaped at him. "You're insane," he stated flatly. "Less than a week after such intensive surgery? You have no idea what he just went through, half an hour ago!"

Dr. Trendell raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I've done several hundred of these replantations, so I probably know pretty well. I'll come back later this afternoon to speak with Charlie, and probably tomorrow, we'll have our psychiatrist pay a visit also. Trust me, I've seen overwrought patients before. As for rapid release, some patients are out in three days. Because of Charlie's other injuries, I'm letting him go a little slower."

Alan drew himself up as tall as he could and looked the surgeon in the eye. "I don't doubt your experience, Dr. Trendell. In fact, I'm counting on it. But Charlie is my son, not just another notch on your scalpel. He will leave here when he is ready, not when you are. Do you understand me? Am I perfectly clear?"

Trendell stared at him, shaking his head. "And to think I've been worried about the other one."

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Don waited downstairs for a few minutes after he'd disconnected from Megan, just in case she wanted to call him right back and tell him Davison had confessed on the spot. Some time later, he finally admitted that wasn't going to happen and went to the cafeteria, where he bought some coffee for himself and his father before heading back upstairs. Looking at his watch outside Charlie's door, he saw that he had been gone almost an hour, and felt terrible. He didn't seem to be holding up his end here at all. He wasn't helping on the case, he wasn't helping his father, he hadn't helped Charlie…

He pushed open the door, and met Alan's eyes. He stood in the doorway, unsure.

"If one of those is for me, son, I'd appreciate your bringing it over here. I could use it."

Don crossed the room quietly. He looked at Charlie, and saw that he was still sleeping, and handed his father a cup of coffee. Alan took a sip and sighed. "Are you all right?"

"I…checked on the case," Don avoided. "Megan says they have a suspect. Agents are on the way to his house with a search warrant now, and my team will bring him back to the office for an interrogation."

Alan contemplated the face of his youngest son and wished he understood Don's obsession. He was afraid that when they did apprehend someone, and Charlie's hand was still surrounded by a line of black stitches like some kind of goth bracelet, Don would crack. He seemed close enough, already. "The doctor was here," he said, every bit as good at avoidance as his son, and he filled Don in on the conversation. He left out the part where he threatened the surgeon.

Don nodded and wandered toward the other chair. He looked again at Charlie, careful to focus on his face. "How much longer will he sleep? When he wakes up, will it be as bad as before?"

"I don't know. I hope not – but I don't really care right now," Alan admitted. "I'm just glad he's going to wake up again."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Don stood at the window of Charlie's room, looking out, listening to his brother breathe, and he knew that everybody was right. If he came within a state of the suspect, he would chew the bastard's hand off. It was downright biblical. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A hand for a hand. He stood there long after he finished his coffee, tense and waiting. He knew he was worrying his father, so he finally crossed to the empty chair on the opposite side of the bed from Alan, and sat down.

He felt like he was losing his mind. He'd gone from staring at the bandaged arm all the time to not being able to loke at it at all, and now he was even having difficulty looking at Charlie's face. He fixed his eyes on a point in the corner of the room, and fidgeted. This was the longest day of his entire damn life.

Alan took it as long as he could, and just before noon he cleared his throat. Neither of them had spoken since Don brought in the coffee. "They tell me he'll be out for a while." He stood, unhappy about leaving him anyway, but knowing that he had to concentrate on Don for a while. "Let's go to the cafeteria. Maybe the nurse will give us one of those pagers, again."

Don tore his eyes away from the corner. He was about to protest, truthfully enough, that he wasn't hungry. At the last second he realized his Dad was offering him a way out of this room. He came to his feet so quickly he got dizzy, and swayed a little. Alan was quickly beside him, a steadying hand on his arm. "We both left the house without breakfast, I should have made you eat something earlier."

Don shrugged him off. "It's not that, Dad. Just stood up too fast." Unaccountably concerned that they might not leave, Don started for the door. "You're probably right, though. We both need something."

Twenty minutes later, pager a silent sentry between them on the table, Alan put something in his mouth — didn't exactly know what — and studied Don's face, watched him pick at his food. "Son. You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some."

Alan translated. None. "I know the SUV is in the shop, being checked; the air bags are being repacked, so they went off. It's a miracle you weren't seriously injured, Don, but you should face the fact that you did incur some physical ramifications. You need to rest. Charlie will sleep for a few more hours, why don't you go home and try to take a nap, please?"

Again, Don found himself in the uncomfortable position of knowing he would usually protest, and not wanting to. He pushed a green bean to the other side of the plate and looked at his father. "Can I go to the house?"

Alan was surprised by the request. "Of course. It's no closer than your apartment, I don't think, but it you want to go there you know you're always welcome. In fact, I think that's a good idea."

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Don wasn't sure why his Dad thought it was a good idea, but he knew what he was thinking about. Charlie's sleeping pills. Last year his brother's numbers had gotten the best of him, and he had entered a phase of insomnia almost six months long. When sleep deprivation had him hallucinating in the daytime, he finally sought help. The resulting pills had gotten him through for a few weeks, until he was able to break the cycle. Taking a taxi toward the house, Don flipped open his cell to call Megan again, and hoped to hell some where still left.

Megan must have a ringtone for him. "Hey, Don." She definitely did not sound as happy as she had earlier, and Don's own shoulders slumped.

"Davison?"

Bad news, and better news. Looks like he's taken off. Didn't show up for work last night, and he wasn't home when the guys went to pick him up. Jacobs' team hit the motherlode, though. This is definitely our guy. There was enough raw material there for at least two more bombs, and his computer was full of research on the bank, plus a string of gay bars that may have been his next target."

"Were you able to get an APB with that?"

"Merrick put it out himself. His name will definitely get attention, Don. Davison won't get far."

_He might already be far_, thought Don. _He might have been out of town before the bomb even went off_. Shit. Shit. Shit. He managed a tight "Thanks," and disconnected before she could ask about Charlie or say anything else. He bounced the cell off the door, earning a dirty look from the cab driver, and, he discovered when he gathered the pieces off the floor, thoroughly killing it. At the house, he made it up to the driver with a generous tip. He let himself in the front door, crossed the living room, and took the stairs two at a time. In the bathroom, he rooted around in the medicine cabinet until he found the Ambien. He swallowed two of the tiny, white pills, not even needing water. Then, he went into his old room, and lay on his back on his old bed. Later, he rolled onto his side and stared at the doorway. There in the hall was the family portrait his mother had hung there when he was 15 and Charlie was 10, still lopsided on the far wall. He closed his eyes, and 15 minutes later made a 180-roll, so that he was facing the other direction. After 10 minutes that aggravated a chronic rotator cuff injury, from his ballplaying days, so he tried his back again. 

About an hour after he got there, and after giving his stomach a turn, Don got up and went back to the bathroom. He took another Ambien. He started back for his old room, but his feet took him a few feet beyond, and to the opposite side of the hallway.

The door to Charlie's room was not quite shut, standing ajar a few inches. Tentatively, Don reached out and pushed it open. It looked pretty much the same as it always did — sort-of like a cyclone had just traveled through. Don picked his way around the piles of books stacked on the floor. He negotiated his way through what looked like all of Charlie's winter clothing, hanging off of furniture and laced around the books. Evenually, he got to the bed, and stood there unsure for a moment. Then, he sat down. He continued on, and lay back, then curled on his side, bringing Charlie's pillow under his nose and closing his eyes, so that he could inhale the scent of his brother. He slid one arm under it, the other over it, and held on as if for life itself.

He thought of Charlie, and he slept.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

As promised, Dr. Trendell was back around 4 to talk to Charlie.

Alan was a little surprised that Don had not come back, but hoped that it meant he was getting some sleep. Charlie had emerged groggily from his Thorazine-haze about an hour earlier, and had been quiet, slipping in and out of dozes.

Dr. Trendell introduced himself to Charlie again. "We met in the ER," he smiled, "but I think you were a little distracted."

Charlie stared up at him solemnly, and wondered again where Don was.

The surgeon sat down. "I understand you're an educated man, so I'll not sugarcoat this. Your prognosis is very good. Your hand will never again be as it was, but if you regain 60 percent of its use, that is an excellent recovery; some people can go as far as 80 percent. The further down the arm the injury occurs, the better the return of use, so my plan is for you to be one of the 80s. When an injury like this occurs, and we attempt replantation, the bone is shortened just a tiny amount – 7 millimeters, in your case. This is necessary for tension-free vessel repair. For the next several weeks, your arm will be bandaged, and always kept above your heart. We'll have you on blood thinners, and it's important that you keep your environment at home as warm as your room is here. Both sensory and motor nerves must regenerate. No caffeine, no smoking. That constricts the blood vessels. After several weeks, you'll move to a brace, and begin passive physical therapy; then, in a few more weeks, active. We'll talk about all those details again."

This was past the point where patients usually interrupted, so Dr. Trendell paused. Charlie just blinked at him, and the doctor considered that maybe the hit of Thorazine still had lingering effects. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Charlie said, his voice quiet.

The surgeon glanced at Alan, then back to Charlie. "I cannot emphasize enough the importance of a positive, 'can-do' attitude. I have seen it make the difference. These first few weeks especially, that is your assignment: Cultivate your attitude."

"Right," Charlie breathed.

Dr. Trendell cleared his throat and continued the usual spiel. "I'm also happy to see that you have a close support system of family and friends. This is the time to let them help you, not the time to work on your stoicism."

Charlie blinked again, thinking about his support system. Don had hardly been able to look at him, had barely spoken to him, since he had awakened that morning. He wasn't even here, now. If his own brother could not stand to be around him, how much hope was there for anyone else? "Absolutely," he whispered, and let his eyes droop.

The doctor stood. "I won't keep you awake any longer now, you need rest. The bandage will not be changed until tomorrow."

"Thank-you," Charlie said, eyes closed now.

Dr. Trendell stared down at him for a moment thoughtfully, then motioned for Alan to follow him out into the hall. "How did that go?", he asked, when the door had shut behind them. "Does he always give one-word answers?"

Alan looked at the floor. "It's not unusual," he answered, then looked at Charlie's surgeon. "Of course, it generally indicates that there is a problem, somewhere."

Trendell sighed. "That's what I was afraid of. It could be from the Thorazine — he won't have as much in his system, tomorrow. But I haven't been kidding, about positive attitude. Watch him closely, and try to keep your own attitude up as well."

"Tomorrow…can I watch? I'll be changing his bandages at home."

"We'll be sure you know how to do that before Charlie is released. It's up to him, about tomorrow. The first time a patient sees a replanted part can be very overwhelming."

Alan nodded silently, gazing over the doctor's shoulder. Overwhelming. Damn good word to describe the last 24 hours.

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Larry was back by 6, insisting that Alan go to dinner while he stayed with Charlie, who was sleeping again. While Alan was gone, Charlie awoke, and Larry smiled at him. "It's good to see you, Charles. How do you feel?"

"I'm all right." Charlie's eyes wandered the room. "Dad?"

"I suggested that he take a break."

Charlie gave a nod, and let his eyes wander again, finally settling on the ceiling. Larry tried to make conversation. "I understand that your father sent Don home to rest, this afternoon. I must say, I was relieved to hear that he was able to accomplish that. The poor man looked like he needed it."

Charlie's eyes found Larry again, and they looked apprehensive. "He's okay? You're not all…covering, not telling me something?"

Larry spoke with characteristic aplomb. "Charles, we've told you that your hand left your body and was surgically reattached. Why would we hide anything else? It would seem rather…secondary, don't you think? Besides, you saw him yourself. He was not injured in the blast, but he is understandably distraught."

Charlie looked at the ceiling, again.

Distraught. Dismayed. Disgusted. Disheartened. Disinegrating, dissected, disabled brother.

Distract. He needed another 'dis' word.

"School?"

"All taken care of, for the rest of the semester," Larry assured him. "You can take your time, concentrate on healing."

Disinterested in your return. You are dismissed and dispatched. Disenfranchised.

Larry frowned at his friend. "Charles? Are you all right?"

Charlie wished he could turn, one way or the other. Flat on his back, he was stuck looking at the ceiling or at whoever was talking to him. He picked the ceiling and sighed. "I'm a little distressed," he answered, and, unexpectedly, laughed; a huffing, loud, snort of a laugh that struck Larry in the chest like a well-placed karate kick.

His hand crept toward his hair, and Larry clutched at an ear on the way. "I can certainly see that you would be," he finally said. They were silent, then, until Alan returned.

He entered the room smiling, saw the look on Larry's face and Charlie staring at the ceiling, and wondered, disconcerted, what he'd missed.

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Small talk was not an option. Alan and Larry sat, and Charlie lay, as if they were mute.

_Nothing uncomfortable about this_, thought Alan, shifting in his chair.

Charlie's eyes finally left the ceiling and flickered his way. His father needed rest at least as badly as Don. Charlie hadn't spoken in so long, his voice came out raspy. "I'm a little tired," he said. "My head hurts."

Alan looked up from his knees in alarm. "Should I call a nurse?"

Damn. That hadn't come out right. "No. I mean, she'll be here soon enough. It's not an emergency." Charlie was already exhausted, but he managed the rest of the sentence. "I'm just saying, when it's time for the pain meds again, I'll be out for hours…maybe even before then. It's all right if you leave."

Alan and Larry looked at each other. It sounded like Charlie wanted them to leave, Alan thought. He looked back at Charlie, saw the lines of weariness and pain on his face and thought, _Yes. He probably does. It's been quite a day for him. _He knew how internally Charlie needed to process things that confused or bothered him. Bombings and amputations would probably qualify for that.

So, although it tore at him to do it, Alan stood and kissed his son good-night, wished him well, and led Larry from the room.

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When he entered the house a little before 8, Alan wasn't sure that Don was still there. Exhausted himself, he trudged up the stairs and checked Don's old room, starting to continue on to his own when he didn't find his eldest. Halfway there, without knowing what possessed him to do it, he froze in the middle of the hallway for a moment, then crossed to the side and stopped outside Charlie's room. The door was open, and he leaned against the doorframe and looked toward the bed. He saw Don, lying on his side in Charlie's bed, hugging Charlie's pillow, his sleeping face scrunched tight in worry and despair.

Alan's hand rose to cover his mouth, trying not to make any noise as, for the first time since he had gotten the phone call almost 36 hours ago, he allowed the tears to fall.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Considering he had taken three sleeping pills, it was no surprise that Don slept through the night. Nor was it surprising that he awoke a little loopy. The only thing that surprised him was his absolute inability to make another trip to the hospital. Charlie had been right when he first came out of anesthesia – there were elephants hanging off trees in that room, and damned if Don knew how to ignore them – or how to face them, either.

He carefully made Charlie's bed, and padded into the bathroom. During his shower, he came up with a plan. He dressed in the clean set of clothing he always stored at the house, smelling coffee, and walked barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Alan was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, which he quickly put down when he heard Don enter. "Good morning, son!", he smiled. "You look better, Don. I thought we'd wait until about 10 to go in today, give Charlie a little more time to himself."

Don coughed into his sleeve. "I'm not sure I should go, Dad."

Alan frowned, concerned. "Are you ill?"

Don poured himself a cup of coffee and joined his father at the table. "It's nothing, Dad. I just feel like I might be getting a cold – kind of achy and stuffy. It could very well be that I just slept too long, and it will clear up, later. Ordinarily, I wouldn't mention it…but if it does turn out to be a cold, the last thing Charlie needs are my germs."

Alan contemplated his son. He looked bright-eyed and rested, to him – not sick at all, but he was right. They should err on the side of caution. "That's true," he conceded. He looked at the paper on the table in front of him and shoved it over to Don. "Headline says there's a suspect. I haven't taken the time to read or listen to any of the details, before now. Did you know ten people died in the explosion, and two more are critical?"

Don scanned the article and didn't see anything Megan hadn't already told him. He had checked his phone for missed calls earlier – he knew he could count on her to call right away whenever Davison was apprehended – but there was nothing. "Not really," he said, and pushed the paper away. "I saw a lot of body bags…I would have guessed more."

Alan sipped his coffee and didn't respond. After a few more minutes, he got up and began to scramble some eggs. Don got up and filled the four-slice toaster. Companionably, silently, as if they had been doing it for years – which, after all, they had – the two of them completed the intricate ballet that was breakfast in the Eppes household. After it had been prepared, and eaten, they loaded the dishwasher and carefully cleaned the kitchen.

Alan replaced the pepper in the cupboard over the stove and turned to lean on the counter. Don was back at the table, with another cup of coffee and the sports section – which was upside down. Ever since Charlie was born, a little over 30 years ago, and there were two of them, Alan had hated this part. Choosing one over the other. Balancing. "Donnie, you'll call me if you start to feel worse and need something. Call Charlie's room." Alan considered. "No, wait. If I'm not there, in the cafeteria or something, he wouldn't be able to reach the telephone and it might frustrate or frighten him. Call the nurse's station on that floor, all right?"

Don offered him a wan smile. "I'm sure it's nothing, Dad. I actually feel better already, but…"

"Of course," Alan agreed. "Better safe than sorry."

Don stopped pretending to read the paper. "I should probably go home."

Alan looked at his watch. "You know you can stay here forever, but if you need a ride, I'll be leaving for the hospital soon. I just want to run out and feed the koi, first. If they haven't eaten each other, by now."

Don let a chuckle escape him, watched his father depart out the kitchen door and decided to go upstairs and get his clothes from yesterday. He grabbed a grocery sack to put them in. Up in his old room, stuffing them in the plastic bag, he thought about the Ambien. Charlie would never remember whether or not he had any in the house. If he ever needed more, he'd just get a new refill. Don hurried to the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle, shoved it in the bag and closed the mirrored cabinet door. As it shut, he caught a glimpse of himself, and began to tremble, slightly. He stared at himself as if at a stranger.

It was not yet 9 a.m., and he had effectively abandoned his only sibling, lied repeatedly to his father, and stolen prescription medication.

This was not him.

Worse, this was not who he wanted to be.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he jerked his cell phone off his belt and flipped it open. He hit a speed dial number and negotiated an automated voice system until he heard someone unmistakably live. "This is Agent Eppes," he said, tremulously. He cleared his throat. "I need an appointment with one of the Bureau's psychiatry staff. Today."

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After he had dropped a quiet Don off at his apartment, Alan alternated between resentful and concerned the rest of the way to the hospital. With Don essentially suspended, he certainly didn't expect that he would have to face Charlie and all his issues alone. He might be older and wiser than his son, but he didn't have any experience to draw on in this situation; he was as much in the dark as Donnie.

On the other hand (God, how he hated that phrase, now), the boy could be telling the truth. Charlie absolutely could not develop any secondary medical issue right now, and if Don was harboring germs, he had to keep them to himself. If that were true, his eldest must feel worse than ever, knowing he couldn't be with Charlie, and periodically, Alan's heart ached for Don. And Charlie. Himself, as well. Hell, throw in Larry. Alan just had a heartache, no two ways about it.

Alan found a parking space somewhere near Oregon and took a shuttle up to the hospital's main entrance. He received the second unwelcome surprise of the day when an elevator disgorged him directly in front of the nurse's station on Charlie's floor, and he saw the crestfallen faces of Megan, Colby and David, who were waiting for a ride down. Alan hurried out of the lift. "What is it? Did something happen?"

The trio formed a circle around him. "Charlie doesn't want any visitors," Colby informed him in a dejected voice. "They won't let us in."

Alan looked at them. "Well, that's ridiculous. I'll talk to him. Can you wait a few minutes?"

A nurse behind the counter – the same one who had attended Charlie yesterday – interrupted. "I'm sorry, Mr. Eppes. Charlie was very clear. No visitors."

Alan stared at her stonily. "You don't mean me. I'm his father."

The woman smiled at him sadly. "He's of legal age, Mr. Eppes. He can make that request. We have to honor it."

Megan touched his arm. "Alan, I'm so sorry. I'm sure he'll change his mind."

The nurse jumped in, again. "That's a very good possibility. If you'd like to wait out here for a while, I'll tell him you're here. I'll keep telling him all day, if I have to."

Stunned, Alan rubbed a hand over his forehead, and that was his third surprise of the morning.

His baby did not want to see him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

He was surprised how easily it all came out.

This was not the first time in his career he had been required to receive a psychiatric clearance before he was returned to field duty, but it was the first time he could remember feeling as if he needed one.

He quickly told the story: his annoyance with Charlie when he had to pull over; his confusion when the blast tossed his SUV into the air and down again; his need to get to his brother when comprehension finally dawned on him and his absolute terror when he found him. At the doctor's request, he described the scene in detail, and when he had finished he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I can't stop seeing it, and it doesn't make any sense to me. I've been an Agent over 12 years. I have seen shit. I have seen bodies, in conditions you can't even imagine. Children…People knifed, shot, bludgeoned, drowned, poisoned, starved…" He leaned forward in his chair earnestly. "Even bombing victims. I've seen bombing vics before."

The doctor tilted her head a little. "You've seen dismembered bodies?"

"Of course." Don's face closed and he settled back in the chair. "My first damn case in Albuquerque literally came to me in pieces. Delivered by the U.S. Postal Service."

Her eyebrows raised. "That must have been horrific."

Don nodded briefly. "Look," he said, a little frustrated, "I've done my time on the couch on that one already."

She looked down briefly at his file, before her on the desk. "Yes, I see that you had six months of sessions with a Bureau psychiatrist. Still, what happened to your brother must have brought back terrible memories."

Don shook his head. "I…don't think that's it. I mean sure, yeah, it's flashed into my mind once or twice…but I'm not…" He sighed. "I really don't think that's it."

The doctor nodded. "Not entirely, maybe. A contributing factor in your inability to move on."

"Contributing." Don considered that. "Fine. Whatever. What else?"

The hint of a smile played at her mouth. "You sound as if you're checking things off a list, Agent."

Don was here willingly, but he was not in the mood to stay here forever — or to keep coming back for months. "I just want to figure out what's going on," he stated, staring at her levelly.

The doctor stood and crossed her arms, paced a little near the window behind her desk. Then she moved to the front of the desk, joining Don in the grouping of chairs he had chosen when he had first entered, and picked one that largely faced him.

"Agent Eppes." Her voice was quiet. "In all that you have seen…have you ever been confronted with your brother as the victim, before?"

Don started to protest immediately. "It can't be that simple. Don't you think I thought of that?"

"It can be that simple, Don. As Agents, a certain detachment in trained into us. Even then, there are cases that get to us along the way – such as the one in Albuquerque – and those cases toughen us more. However -- no training exists to prepare us to see someone we love as the victim." She let Don sit with that a moment, then continued. "You've told me you have increasing difficulty looking at his bandaged arm. What do you see when you look at it?"

"Baseball," Don answered, and she lifted a brow again. "I played in the minors for a while, and I loved baseball as a kid. Played all the time, and throwing balls around with Charlie was one of the only things I didn't resent my parents asking me to do with him. One of them would say 'Go play catch with your brother', and I was gone. And I think of his bike. Charlie just got his driver's license last year – he didn't feel any pressure, because he loves riding his bike. Even though he has a car now, he still rides his bike at least half the time in good weather…but bikes have hand brakes….Oh. I remembered fishing, once. It just flashed through my mind, this picture of him standing hip deep in a river, reeling in a Salmon." His voice had been increasing in volume and anger as he spoke. "It's not right, that he may not be able to do any of that again. He does not deserve that. He's a good person."

"So you dwell on his potential losses. And your potential loss?"

Don looked at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Ten people were killed in that blast, Agent. You told me that Charlie escaped major head injury by landing on one of the bodies. Are you going to sit there and tell me that thinking about what Charlie may have lost doesn't remind you of what you may have lost that day? There is no justification for your brother's injury. Nor is there any good reason he was not one of the fatalities."

Don paled, but didn't respond. The doctor looked at the clock on the desk. "I have another appointment, Agent. I'd like you to consider what I've said. I would like to see you a few more times, and discuss exposure therapy with you."

Don was still reeling, and didn't even care that he was not being immediately returned to field duty. He looked at her a little frantically. "Can I call your secretary later, to schedule the appointments? I have to go see my brother."

She smiled. "I think that's a very good idea, Agent."

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	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Charlie heard the door open, but he didn't open his eyes until he figured out that there was more than one set of footsteps. Had his nurse ignored his insistence that there be no visitors? His eyes popped open and Dr. Trendell smiled at him, while Anna, the nurse, arranged sterile materials on the rolling table beside his bed. A man he didn't recognize was also there, and he looked at him suspiciously.

"This is Dr. Melman," his surgeon informed him. "He's a staff psychiatrist here at the hospital, and he works exclusively with our replantation and amputation patients."

"I don't have anything to say," Charlie informed them all.

Dr. Trendell glanced at Anna, and back at Charlie. "I understand you're not taking visitors today. Not even your father."

"I have to think," Charlie defended.

The surgeon nodded. "That's not an unheard of reaction, believe it or not. Dr. Melman is not here because of that — at least not yet."

Charlie was eyeing the materials Anna was continually exposing, and moving from curiosity to dread. "What are you going to do?"

"We need to re-dress the surgical site," answered Trendell. "We try to have Dr. Melman or one of his colleagues with us, the first time."

_Well, shit_, Charlie thought, looking warily at the doctors. _That can't be good._

"Your father also asked me earlier if he could be here, but I explained that was up to you. Would you like him to come in? I understand that he's still here."

Charlie closed his eyes and did a quick equation. Forty percent of him wanted to look at his father's face and nowhere else while this happened. Fifty percent wanted to see it on his own first, so that he wouldn't have to worry about having a reaction that freaked Alan out. Ten percent wanted to rip his hand back off and use it to slap the smile off Dr. Trendell's face. He tried not to smile himself at that image — who knew what Melman would think of that — and opened his eyes again. "No, thank you."

"Very well." Charlie had to give Trendell credit; at least he never tried to talk him into anything.

All business, the doctor stepped back to the bathroom, and Charlie heard water running in the sink. When the doctor came back toward the bed, he was snapping latex gloves onto his hands. Without preamble, he stationed himself next to Charlie's injured arm, while Anna rolled the table into a better position and then stood next to him. She lifted Charlie's arm off the pillows, and held it while Trendell picked up some scissors and cut through all the layers of the gauze. Charlie wasn't quite ready for that — he had thought, for some reason, the doctor would just take his time and unwind it. Before he managed to process the change in what he expected, the surgeon began to peel away the bandage. "There will be some dried blood on your arm, since this has not been done since the surgery. We'll clean that off, inspect the sutures, apply some antibiotic ointment and rewrap," he explained as he was working.

The last of the gauze began to fall away and Charlie looked away. He swallowed. "Take your time," Anna soothed. "We're just cleaning it up, now." Charlie swallowed again, and occasionally felt something wet and cool, but never past about two inches above his wrist.

He felt his elbow propped on the pillows so that his arm was vertical, and he could feel it rotating. "The sutures look good," he heard Trendell murmur. "No sign of infection."

Charlie felt his head turning. He wondered who was making it do that; at no point had he made a conscious decision to look.

Yet look he did.

What a…disembodied sensation. He saw a hand, and it looked like his, but he could feel nothing in those fingers, that thumb, that palm. Nothing would move at his internal command. What shocked him the most was its color. The fact that it had color. He had become used to seeing that white bandage, and without it, his swollen limb was basically bruised as all get-out all the way around, but the right color in the places that weren't purple. Even with the bruising, the fine black rows of stitches stood out, and in his mind's eye he imagined all the rest that he could not see.

"I'm really quite pleased," said Dr. Trendell. "When the bruising and swelling decreases, this will look even better — more natural. In a year, 18 months, hair will cover the scar and most people won't even notice."

_Unless it was a useless lump,_ thought Charlie. _People would notice a useless lump. _A feeling was growing in his chest as he stared at his hand, and he fought to identify it.

"Dr. Eppes?" He didn't recognize the voice right away, and when he tracked it, he saw that it was Dr. Melman. He was beginning to think the man was mute.

"Write down that the patient took his first viewing well," said Charlie. "Write down that the patient is guardedly optimistic, and grateful for this opportunity."

He had identified that feeling in his chest. Anger. Unbelieveable, undeniable anger. At the person who planted the bomb in the bank in the first place, at himself, for wasting energy on anger, but mostly, at Don, for not believing in him, for not being able to face this with him. He lay there, surprised, and realized he was pissed as hell at Don.

"Most patients experience anger." Dr. Melman had identified the emotion, as well. "As the day progresses, things may hit you in stages. Grief, disbelief, disappointment…"

Great. The 'dis' words were coming back. "I'm done, now," interrupted Charlie. "You can wrap it back up." As Dr. Trendell started to apply an ointment prior to doing just that, Charlie looked at Dr. Melman. "I'll do whatever you say I have to, but when I want to talk, it will be to my father."

The psychiatrist nodded. "Fair enough."

Charlie leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. When the surgeon had finished redressing his wound, he and Dr. Melman left. Anna stayed a little longer, cleaning up, and getting Charlie re-settled in his nest. She had taken his vitals and was scribbling them in a chart before Charlie opened his eyes, again. He watched her for a moment, then reclaimed the spot on the ceiling that had become his friend. "Anna." He was tired, and it showed in his voice.

She looked up. "Charlie? Do you need something for pain?"

He shook his head. "No. Please tell my father I'm sorry. I just can't see anyone right now. Tell him he might as well give up and go home."

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The taxi let Don off at the main entrance to the hospital, and when he turned around after he had paid the driver, he almost bumped right into his father – who didn't even seem to recognize him. "Dad! Dad!"

Alan looked at him then, and surprise soon gave way to a smile. They walked toward each other. "Donnie. Are you feeling better, son?"

Oh. Right. Don had forgotten about that whole fake cold. "Um…yeah…it was like I thought, the symptoms all cleared away. I think it's safe if I see Charlie for a few minutes…" His father's face fell, and Don's heart began to race. "Dad? Is something wrong?"

Alan grabbed Don's upper arm, and led him toward a bench in front of the hospital. "Let's sit down, son."

Oh, God.

Hospital. Sit Down. Dad outside instead of in Charlie's room. Something must have gone horribly wrong, Charlie hadn't been in any danger…. Maybe everyone had been concentrating on his hand so much that another injury had been missed. Sit down. Oh, no…please, God, no….

Don sank onto the bench and stared at Alan, unable to speak. Alan stared back, frightened by Don's sudden lack of color. He gasped when he made the connection and leaned over to gather his eldest to him. "No, Donnie, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Charlie is fine. He's fine, son. Relax." Alan held him until he felt Don shudder, felt his breathing even out a little, felt his son's death grip on him relax a little, and then he pulled back. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I frightened you."

Don took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "No shit." The two sat in silence facing each other for a few moments, Alan's hand on Don's arm, on the back of the bench. Finally, Don felt a little more grounded. "So what is it? Why are you leaving the hospital?"

Alan sighed, and his eyes were sad when they met Don's. "Charlie won't see anyone, today. Your team was here when I arrived this morning, and he refused to see them. I asked them to wait, I was going to talk to him – and his nurse said he didn't want to see me, either."

Don was shocked. "What?"

Alan shrugged. "She said he has the legal right to do that, and he requested no visitors at all, not even family. I stayed here all day, she said she would tell him I was there, try to change his mind…"

"That's…crazy…" Don was a little perturbed at Charlie. Sure, the kid was going through some stuff, but he had to hurt Dad?

Alan tried to smile a little. "He must have told them it was all right to continue releasing information to me, though. About 45 minutes ago, Dr. Trendell examined and redressed the surgical site, and when he came out he told me that he was very pleased. No sign of infection. There was another doctor with him, a psychiatrist – I guess they always have one there, the first time…he didn't have much to say."

Don wondered if that was good or bad. "Do you think I should go up anyway? Maybe his nurse could talk him into seeing me."

Alan shook his head. "I doubt it would do any good. After he saw Dr. Trendell, he asked Anna to apologize to me, and send me home."

Don looked up at the hospital and felt a little desperate. "But…I should be there."

Alan, his hand still on Don's arm, patted a few times. "Trust me," he said, despondently. "I know exactly how you feel."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Though his body craved sleep, Charlie's mind fought against it. He awoke often, and every time it was to a new sensation. All-consuming anger would give way to an aching, almost nameless grief. Twice, he awoke certain it was all a dream, and fought against the pillows and blankets and IV lines, thinking he was late for school. He could not stay asleep, nor could he stay awake long enough to sort everything out. Finally, as dawn was breaking, he awoke again. After he had run the usual gauntlet of emotions, he reached over with his right hand and touched the fingers of his left hand. Only his eyes told him that he was doing it, and he knew, suddenly, that would not be enough for him. A kind of resolve began to grow in his chest, and he lay, accepting where he was by degrees; accepting where he must go by millimeters.

Around mid-morning, Anna came into Charlie's room with a large molded plastic trough, a stack of towels and a plastic grocery bag looped over her arm. She staggered to the end of the bed and dumped everything in the space Charlie made with his feet, and smiled at him brightly. "So, it's Thursday," she began. Charlie looked at her uncomprehendingly. Was he supposed to know some kind of return code phrase?

He finally settled for obscurity. It had always worked well for him in the past. "Richard Feynman's work proves that sometimes, people break spaghetti just to be breaking spaghetti."

She gaped at him. "What?"

He echoed her. "What?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Look, I came in here to offer you every man's dream. A sponge bath from a hot nurse." She indicated the plastic trough. "I was even going to throw in washing your hair. I don't do that for just anybody, you know. But you'd rather talk spaghetti?"

Charlie was starting to enjoy this, he realized with a start. Who knew? "Depends. What's in the bag?"

She lifted her hands and crossed them over her chest. "Your father is such a nice man. I asked him yesterday to bring me whatever hair product you usually use at home, when he came back this morning. Poor man has been understandably upset, though – he obviously thought I asked him to bring aisles 10 and 11 from the supermarket, in their entirety."

Charlie felt himself redden furiously. This was not as fun, anymore. "This is your bedside manner?"

She grinned, knowing she had won, and couldn't help hammering it home. "No. I've been checking out your brother, though. I'm considering offering him my bedside manner."

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He would never admit to anyone, upon pain of death, that he had actually fallen asleep during a sponge bath. He went into it dreading the experience a little, especially since her last comment, but she started with his hair, head in the funny plastic trough, and took her time. She gently massaged his head, at least as well as anyone in a barber shop or hair salon ever had, and he closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, she was waking him up. The trough was gone, he was wearing a fresh gown, and his head was wet.

He blinked up at her. "You're good."

She laughed. "You're saying you deserve less? Listen, now that you've had a little nap, how about getting up in the chair for a while? I've always wanted to say this to a man: I'll help you do your hair."

Charlie groaned and rolled his eyes. He noticed a large padded chair next to the bed. When had that showed up? "Okay," he agreed, still staring at it.

She had him dangle on the edge of the bed, blood rushing all over the place searching for a place to settle. She bound his injured arm up in a tight, high sling, so that his hand was resting on the opposite shoulder, as it he was preparing to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. When she helped him stand, he clutched at her a little frantically with the arm he had left. This new arrangement really threw off his balance. "I've got you," she said quietly, "you're doing great. Just a pivot to the left, and we lower down." He took a breath, and they did it, and it was almost as easy as she promised. She raised the foot of the chair, like a recliner, and ripped a blanket off the bed, tucking it around him. She smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, and began to go through the bag. It was a high chair – they were nearly eye level. She drew out a hand mirror and several containers, shaking her head. "Good LordÉ" she breathed. She glanced at him. "Which first?"

Charlie was embarrassed. "I really don't use all of that. He must have brought everything in the bathroom." She continued to look at him silently. "UmÉmousse?"

She selected a can and handed it him. He regarded it, then looked back at it. "How do I get the top off?"

She took the can back and demonstrated. "Hold the cylinder with your bottom three fingers wrapped around it near the lid. Then use your thumb and forefinger to pop it off. Aim for your lap, because you'll want the lid back, later." She gave it back to him, and he successfully popped the top into his lap.

He looked back at her, beaming. He shook the can and his smile faltered. "What do I squirt it into?"

She shrugged. "Your hair, of course. At home, you'll do this in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, so you can tell how much you're getting. Right now, I'll try to hold this hand mirror at the right level for you – say when..."

"Th- There," Charlie said, strangely apprehensive. So he might get the wrong amount of mousse in his hair – would that be the end of the world? He was chagrined to note that his arm was shaking, as he lifted it and squirted the mousse onto his head. He dropped the can into his lap, next to its lid, and used his free hand to work the mousse into his hair. He was surprised how thorough he could be with just one hand.

He lowered his hand and his eyes, and retrieved the can from his lap. He used the tip to tilt the lid just right, until it reclaimed its basic position, then he secured in by pushing into the bottom of his chin. Smiling, he offered it back to Anna.

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm impressed. An over-achiever." She looked back at the other products next to her on the bed. "Next?"

Charlie was already tired. "I really don't use all of that," he repeated, then amended himself. "At least not every day. Is this okay?"

Anna nodded and hopped off the bed, putting things back into the bag. He was a little startled again when she unlocked wheels he hadn't even noticed, and pushed the chair away from the bed a little. She locked them again and headed for the bathroom, coming back with a toothbrush and emesis basin. She placed them on the rolling table, along with his water, and brought the table to him, settling it over his chair, She reached into a pocket of her uniform and withdrew a trial-size tube of toothpaste, which she laid in the middle of everything. "Why don't you brush your teeth while I change the bed?" she offered.

Charlie regarded the toothpaste with dismay. He wanted to, it would make all the difference. After his bath, and shampoo, if he could brush his teeth, tooÉhe raised wounded eyes. "Toothpaste?"

Like so many before her, she wilted at the look. "I could tell you to open it the same way you did the mousse," she said, smiling. "That's what we did for years. Then the toothpaste people made this amazing thing." She reached into her pocket again, this time withdrawing a stand-up tube of tooth gel. "You just flip the lid open, squirt a little on the toothbrush, and close it again. Simple." She sighed. "I don't know why I'm doing this. I usually make people figure out the conventional tube at least once."

Charlie grinned as he accepted the new tube from her, and for the next few minutes, he brushed his teeth, spitting into the emesis basin, while she efficiently made the bed. Turning back to him, she rolled the table away, looking down at the small basin. "If I had thought to get you into a wheelchair, I could make you empty this yourself," she teased. "Never too early to learn new ways of doing things."

Charlie protested. "I'm in the hospital. Can't you pretend I'm sick, or something?"

She laughed and gathered things up, returned them to the bathroom. When she came back out, she stood over him and smiled. "Look better," she declared. "Feel better?"

He nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

She crossed her arms over your chest again. "Your Dad is so sweet," she said. "He brought us homemade cookies, this morning, and an extra plate for the night shift. Said he found himself without anything to do yesterday afternoon."

Charlie sighed a little, honestly already incredibly tired. His body was responding to the events of the last few days, and his restless night, with its first line of defense – sleep. Still. He should do this one, last thing, After all, he had slept through the sponge bath. "All right," he mumbled. "If he's here, he can come in."

"Your brother is here, too."

Charlie worried about who else might be here. He almost pleaded with her. "Okay, but no more right now, all right?"

She smiled. "Absolutely. Your call. But I knew you'd see it my way."

Charlie leaned his head back and smiled, watching her leave the room. The smile faded, and he closed his eyes. He was already dangerously close to sleep again when he heard the door open, and two familiar sets of steps. He opened his eyes.

Alan smiled into them. "Charlie. You look good, son. You look good. You're feeling all right?"

Don stood next to his father. He looked at Charlie for a moment, then his eyes fell to the floor. "Hey, Charlie," he said, quietly.

The gesture woke Charlie up, and he focused again on his father. "Dad, I want to apologize. I never meant to hurt you. I just needed some time. I'm sorry."

Alan kept smiling. "It's all right. I understand how you process things, son." The smile faded, a little. "I just want to be with you, to help if I can, and just..." He finished lamely, repeating himself. "...be with you."

Charlie nodded silently, a little sadly. "I know. I am sorry, Dad." Charlie quickly turned his attention to Don. His brother was looking at his father, not at him. That stance of ignorance, become so familiar since Monday, helped Charlie to dig within himself and find the strength he needed to say this. "You," he bit out. "Don."

Don finally looked at him, a little surprised at the tone of Charlie's voice. "Me?"

"You. I know you can do anything, Don, I know you're a...super hero, or something...but for me, this is hard. Even if my hand comes back, it will be months. I have to learn new ways to do almost everything, and I have to work incredibly hard at therapy if I'm going to bring it back. And I am going to bring it back, Don. I see the way you can't look at me, I know you're disgusted, and you don't believe I can do this, and, and, I can't be around that. I need to be around people who encourage me, help me. I know you think I'm selfish already, but you haven't seen selfish yet, Don. I have to be selfish, now, I have to ask for what I need." Charlie's long speech had nearly done him in, but he had one last thing to say. The hardest thing of all. "AndÉwhat I need, Don is for you to make a decision. You help me – or you stay the hell away from me."

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	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Don thought he would drop through the floor, or at the very least, fall on it. He actually felt his knees buckle a little. He couldn't believe how Charlie had just talked to him, he couldn't believe that Charlie thought those things...

He crossed rapidly to the chair Charlie was sitting in, looked around and grabbed another, smaller chair, which he placed in front of him. He sat down and leaned forward. "God, Charlie, that hasn't been it at all. Those aren't the things I've been thinking. When I look at you, I'm not disgusted by anything – I'm just terrified. I look at you, and I'm angry that you have to fight so hard, that someone did this to you. I look at you, and we're back on the street again, in front of that bank. I look at you, and I imagine life without you, and I want to die myself." Don was crying now, tears streaming down his face, and he wiped at them with the back of his hand, embarrassed. He sniffed violently. "I believe in you Charlie, I do. Your doctor says 60 to 80 percent? I know you and your numbers – you're thinking '90' already in that head of yours, and you will damn well do it, too." He leaned forward a little more, almost slipping from the chair, and squeezed Charlie's leg under the blanket. "Please, Buddy. I'm sorry. Please don't ask me to go away."

Charlie held his gaze, a lone tear rolling down his own face. He found himself, after the last few days, afraid to hope. Bringing himself to the place where he could say those things to Don had hurt him more than any injury ever would. "I..I want..." his voice was barely a whisper.

"What?" Don was desperate. He would agree to anything. "I'll do it. I'll get it. I'll become it. What?"

"...to believe...", Charlie answered, and Don squeezed his leg again. He half-stood and dragged his chair so that he was sitting beside Charlie, but facing the other way.

"I swear, Charlie. I even went to a Bureau shrink yesterday, willingly, and I'm going back. I love you, Buddy. I couldn't take it if you asked me to leave."

Charlie's good hand was trapped between both of Don's good ones. He wasn't entirely sure when that had happened, but he sank his head back on the chair and didn't care. He felt safe for the first time since he had regained consciousness. He closed his eyes. "I want you to stay," he breathed, and felt the pressure on his hand increase.

Alan stood several feet away, trying not to cry himself, and felt incredible, sweet relief.

His sons had finally been reattached.

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_**EPILOGUE -- SIX MONTHS LATER...**_

Don tracked Charlie down, late in the afternoon, in one of the larger lecture halls at CalSci. As close as Don could figure, Charlie should have just finished a class, but his brother was still working on a set of equations on the white board, even as students filed past. Don pushed against the tide, trying to get down to him while most others were trying to get away.

He saw a small redhead approach Charlie, and was close enough to hear her speak. "Dr. Eppes, I wanted to return that book you leant me. Thanks, it really showed me some points I need to clarify in my dissertation."

"Good, Melanie." Charlie hardly looked at her – he was in the zone, Don could see that. "Just drop it on the deskÉwait. Give it to me, I think there might be something in there..." The girl offered the book, and Charlie continued to write on the board with his right hand, balancing the book with his left. He still wore a wrist brace, and his fingers curled loosely around the spine of the book, but gripped it with enough strength that it didn't fall to the floor. Impatient, he shoved the Dry Erase marker in his pocket and used his right hand to thumb through the book, until he found what he was looking for. "Damn," he muttered, and he picked up an eraser and destroyed half of the equation. He fumbled in his pocket for the marker and continued to hold the open book with his left hand, glancing at it periodically, as he completed the equation again.

The lecture hall was virtually empty now, but Don stood behind Charlie for a few moments and watched. He felt...pride. With four months of nerve regeneration still ahead of him, his doctor and therapists said Charlie was already at the 50 percent mark when it came to regaining the use of his hand, and Don knew that was no accident. Within a week of Charlie's surgery he was using his right hand to perform passive, range of motion exercises on his left. As the nerves regenerated, the pain he had been spared at the time of the injury hit hard, but Charlie hadn't complained. He would sit on the couch, trying to tighten his fingers around a large rubber ball, grit his teeth and hiss, "This is ok. This is better than feeling nothing."

The road had not been without its potholes. Charlie had his moments of frustration, anger, depression – and he didn't care who knew about them. Don admired that, too. There seemed to be something genetic that ran through the Eppes men – they didn't always face the emotional stuff too successfully. Since his injury, Charlie had learned to ask for help when he needed it; and, even more impressive, to accept it.

As Don watched, Charlie stepped back from the white board and studied his equation. He tilted his head, and backed up as far as the desk, and extended his left hand behind him, intending to drop the book on top. Instead, Don grabbed it from him, and his brother jerked, dropped the Dry Erase marker and whirled around. He regarded Don with large, wide eyes that soon narrowed in mock anger. "Dammit, Don, you know I hate it when you do that!"

Don grinned. "Why do you think I do it?"

Charlie looked at the clock on the wall. He had stopped wearing a watch, since he still wore the brace all of the time. "What's up? Am I late for something?"

Don's grin faded a little. "No, nothing like that. I just thought you should know...it could be on the news later, and I wanted you to hear it from me..."

Charlie evaluated Don's level of discomfort. "Yeah, and we both know I rush home at night and turn on the news."

Don grinned again, briefly. "Well, sometimes Dad has it on when you get there, right?"

"Book club," Charlie reminded him. "Big night. Elections. Dad may be President Eppes, soon. You're supposed to take me to dinner."

"I..." Don almost fell for it, then saw the twinkle in Charlie's eye. "Knock it off. We can go to dinner if you want, I'm through for the day – but you're buying."

Charlie leaned on the edge of the desk. "Hmm. So tell me what will ruin my appetite."

Don remembered why he was there, and frowned a little. "Oh. Yeah. I thought you should know, Davison was added to the list today.You know, our Most Wanted list. The National Director called Merrick this morning."

Charlie nodded, and turned his head back toward the white board, although Don was pretty sure he wasn't really looking at it. Charlie had been around the FBI long enough to know that when someone was added to the Most Wanted list, it meant that the trail had gone cold, and there was little chance of ever catching him. Don saw him inhale deeply, and when Charlie turned back he was smiling. "I feel the need for a thick, juicy steak."

Don held his gaze. "You all right with this? You might never get justice."

Charlie blinked, a little surprised. "Justice? I was one of the lucky ones, Donnie. I don't need justice. I've already received grace."

Don shook his head. Charlie would forever surprise him, it seemed. He smiled, relieved. "Well, then. Steak, huh?" He looked at the books and papers still strewn over the desk. "I suppose we need to drop this stuff off at your office."

Charlie straightened from his leaning position and turned, frowning slightly at the mess. "I may need some help with this."

Don crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Absolutely not," he said. "You've got two hands, just like the rest of us."

Charlie groaned. "One more like that, and I'll make you cut my steak." He crossed behind the desk, leaned over and came up with his backpack. He propped it on the desk and held it open with his left hand while he used his right to shove items in it from the desk, unconcerned with any form of organization or neatness.

Don laughed, and reached out to grab a sheet of paper trying to escape off the edge. "President Eppes, now? You think he'll make us call him that?"

Charlie shrugged. "I'm sure 'Your Highness' will still do just fine."

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FINIS

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